


Counterpoint

by am_fae



Series: couldn't wash the echoes out [1]
Category: Ogniem i Mieczem | With Fire and Sword (1999), Ogniem i Mieczem | With Fire and Sword – Henryk Sienkiewicz, Trylogia | The Trilogy - Henryk Sienkiewicz
Genre: (eventually lol), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Canon Timeline, Duelling, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Feelings, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Power Dynamics, Pre-OT3, Slow Burn, Sparring, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6477970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_fae/pseuds/am_fae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon recovering from his injuries after the duel with Wołodyjowski, Bohun makes his way to Perejasław instead of the Waladynka – just in time to meet up with Kisiel’s entourage and Jan Skrzetuski. Drama ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counterpoint

**Author's Note:**

> Events are based on the book, not the movie - I’m not sure how well it’ll read without knowledge of the book, but, go ahead! Appearances are loosely based mainly on the movie (… and on the book because I’m trash.) Here’s the disclaimer saying that my characterization of Chmielnicki is based off the book & not real events (that said, I recognize my sins…)
> 
> Dialogue loosely based off the Kuniczak and Curtin translations (which again are very different, sorry). Names should be as they are in Polish, but some of the Ukrainian stuff is just anglicized from Cyrillic, so... And the song mentioned is originally Ukrainian but it's soo anglicized it actually rhymes in English, sorry...

Bohun had slipped through the door a few minutes past and in his drunkenness Chmielnicki hadn’t yet noticed him. But he, certainly, noticed Chmielnicki. His loudness and remnants of that same magnetic aura which had secured him the support of the Cossacks and serfs ensured he was the center of the room, no matter where he stood. And now the hetman was standing on the threshold of Kisiel’s private rooms, deep in conversation with a young man who’d, as it seemed, just emerged from that bedroom. Chmielnicki’s face was flushed with wine. The man turned away from him, eyes regally averted, as if escaping the close breath of the hetman, and Bohun’s eyes widened in surprise. He recognized Skrzetuski.

Chmielnicki’s hand fell on Skrzetuski’s shoulder and he snapped back to attention. Intrigued and strangely unnerved, Bohun began to weave his way through the feasting crowd to where the pair were talking. He tried to make out their words.

Chmielnicki was laughing now, that hand still clamped on the Pole’s shoulder. Skrzetuski looked taut as a wire.

“But I’m not angry. D’you know why?” Bohun strained to hear the response, but Skrzetuski was silent and Chmielnicki tugged him closer, hand sliding up to his neck. “I like you.”

Bohun stopped, struck as if by lightning. The sudden _hardening_ of Skrzetuski’s features that those words produced, freezing like a last line of defense into marble and steel, stopped him in his tracks. A word, unbidden, rose to the forefront of his thoughts – never far away… _Helena._ His breath caught in his chest. Wasn’t that the look Kurcewiczówna had? There in the Waładynka? Jezus Maria, it never left her face from the moment she spotted him in her room –

“And not for saving my life...” Chmielnicki continued, still laughing, “…or anything after that…”

Skrzetuski’s defenses weakened visibly. The marble façade cracked like porcelain and, once more, he turned and averted his gaze, fighting down a flush of his own. Bohun could suddenly breathe again, and sought refuge in familiar contempt. So that’s how it was, then! That idiotic pride – as if it makes you somehow better than the scum around you! The Poles and the nobles, their disdain for the freedom, the _lives,_ of everyone they stepped on to achieve their petty goals – This was a topic he was accustomed to and his thoughts churned on in easy fury.

Oh, and how important does it seem now? He wanted to throw his words at Helena like bullets. All that Polish pride and Polish honor – do you think that’ll do you any good? _Here?_

Teeth clenched, Bohun stared haggardly at Skrzetuski. He had, it seemed, recovered from that initial hit but his eyes remained downcast. He pushed Chmielnicki’s hand off his neck, causing the hetman to laugh all the harder.

“He doesn’t know!”

Bohun stepped closer, realizing he must’ve missed some of the conversation. The old man, Kisiel, and a few others of the commissioners’ party stepped forward as well, holding back but forming a loose ring around Skrzetuski. Bohun snorted. Their message was clear.

Chmielnicki was still talking, something about Czapliński and a tavern in Czehryń, and the lieutenant’s face changed again. He stepped back a little, looking at the floor, a wry, helpless quirk to his lips. Bohun stared at him for a few more moments, enthralled, but quickly lost interest and sank onto a nearby bench, reaching for a pitcher of mead.

It was strange to see Skrzetuski now, Bohun reflected once he’d taken a drink, an entire year after their first meeting in Rozłogi. He’d been infuriated then – his veins still pulsed with anger – but how little had really stood between them! Just a dance, he thought bitterly. And how much had changed since?

Skrzetuski himself seemed to have changed. Bohun stole another glance at him from across the room. To be honest, he didn’t remember very clearly how the noble had looked at Rozłogi. A clean-cut jawline, gold-brown hair, an arrogant swagger… He remembered better Helena’s face when they’d turned about the room. Pale cheeks flushed with joy, eyes lit up, dark hair swirling around her skirts…

Bohun shuddered violently and took another gulp of mead. Skrzetuski, he ground out coldly. Think about Skrzetuski.

The lieutenant’s face was thinner, that much was obvious. His whole frame seemed thinner – _leaner,_ somehow stronger and more fragile at the same time. He was responding to Chmielnicki now, and although his jaw was set and his arms remained frozen at his sides, his eyes shone with real feeling – real grief? – as he spoke. Quietly, but Chmielnicki seemed to be listening.

Eh, of course. Bohun felt a bitter, jealous tide surge in his chest. Of course the Lach loves her just as much as she cares for him. A perfect set! Two marble lovebirds! Matched in all things, eh? Polish blood, noble blood, idiotic stubbornness and, and that damn expression!

I promised Helena I’d throw his head at her feet, he thought darkly. And I’ll do it, slava Bohu.

_“And you fly away from that window, little bird.”_

“Bohun,” Skrzetuski said, in that same cautious voice, and Bohun startled as if shocked.

“You see I can’t do that,” Chmielnicki replied. “Bohun is dead.”

And one rumor had gone on too long. Bohun pushed himself to his feet.

He could vaguely hear Skrzetuski saying something about a girl in Kiev and a search party, but it blurred like white noise. He pushed through the crowd again, hearing mutters of awe and confusion in his wake. As he neared the opposite side of the room, everything suddenly seemed to snap into focus. All it took was a few short words.

“…and what will you do for me?”

Bohun’s heart stopped in his chest.

_And what will you do for me?_

He should be happy, he knew, seeing his enemy beaten, but… looking at Skrzetuski’s defeated posture, measured breaths, bowed head obscuring the pale skin of his throat… he became suddenly unreasonably annoyed. Why was the hetman toying with this Pole, like a cat with a mouse? It was ludicrous. An entire army to direct and he gets distracted by one Wiśniowiecki soldier?

Skrzetuski raised his eyes and held Chmielnicki’s gaze for a few long moments. A muscle in his jaw spasmed. Finally he said, with difficulty, “I’d be grateful.”

Chmielnicki smiled triumphantly and slung his arm back around Skrzetuski’s neck. For one brief half-second the lieutenant’s eyes closed.

Bohun shoved past the warriors in front of him. Too quickly, speaking too loudly, he shouted, “If anyone has a problem with Jur Bohun, he can take it up with me.”

All eyes turned towards him. The muttering rose to a shout: “Alive! He’s alive!”

Chmielnicki’s fingers dropped from the hollow of Skrzetuski's throat in an instant as he rushed forward to greet him, and Bohun peered at Skrzetuski over Chmielnicki’s shoulder. The lieutenant was raking a hand through his hair, clearly trying to regain his composure. For a moment it almost seemed as if he glanced up at Bohun, uncertain, but he must’ve imagined it. The commissioners’ party – old men and negotiators – looked at one another anxiously.

“I don’t know if those two hundred men will be necessary now,” Chmielnicki began, but Skrzetuski cut him off, stepping forward until only a few feet separated them.

“Bohun, you can see injustice falls between us.”

Bohun stared at him. Any lingering memory of sympathy disappeared under the thrill of revenge. _Yes, I can._

Skrzetuski’s eyes were steely. “This time tomorrow?”

Bohun considered for a moment. He didn’t know what made him do it, but he pulled aside his open shirt and coat, revealing the bandages beneath. “This time next week. Unless,” he sneered, “your honor allows you to fight an injured man.”

“Next week,” Skrzetuski said readily. Then, “I’ll be waiting.”

With a swish of his cloak, the lieutenant turned on his heel and left the room.

“He should’ve waited for my dismissal,” Chmielnicki muttered at Bohun’s side. “But there’s nothing for it.” He turned to Bohun conspiratorially, flooding the air with the wine on his breath. “You should’ve seen him in the Sich. All that dash and fire!”

Someday, Bohun reflected, annoyed, he would actually find out what Skrzetuski had done in the Sich. “Mm.”

The hetman’s tone changed. “Even now – did you see? – he wanted to kill me the entire time.” He laughed. “That’s Wiśniowiecki’s man and no mistake. But he needs my favor if he ever wants to see his girl again, so he has to let me put my hands where I want.”

Something clenched in Bohun’s stomach. When he finally spoke it was a soft, confident drawl, revealing none of the uncertainty he felt. “And you promised him my own Panna Helena, did you?”

Chmielnicki clapped him on the back and roared with laughter. “Jurko, we thought you were dead!”

Bohun smiled darkly. “Don’t make that mistake again.”

 

It was late by the time the sounds of feasting faded in the next room and Kisiel entered the bedroom soon after. Skrzetuski looked up from the letter he was writing to acknowledge him. The old man’s face was creased with weariness and – was that concern?

“What are you doing?” Kisiel asked. Skrzetuski heard the creak of the bedframe and the rustle of boots being unlaced from across the room. He sat at a simple wooden table in the opposite corner of the room, illuminated by a single candle.

“Writing a letter. I’ll find someone to send it to  Zamość – I have friends there, Pan Zagłoba and Michał Wołodyjowski, maybe even Pan Longinus if he’s returned –” Jan stopped talking, struck by the expression on Kisiel’s face. “Is something wrong?”

Kisiel sighed. A few more moments passed before he spoke. “I should’ve… I’m s…” Finally he looked up. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Chmielnicki?”

Jan put down his pen. Calmly, he said, “I didn’t think it would be important.”

“Didn’t think –” Kisiel spluttered.

“And did it turn out to be important?” Skrzetuski turned back to his work. “Has it affected your mission in any way?”

“No, but –”

“I am honestly sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you by leaving the presentation ceremony,” Skrzetuski said, words crisp and clear. “But you know I can’t and won’t take any of that back.”

“Yes, but –” Kisiel lost the last of his composure. “For God’s sake, Jan, if you’d told me I’d have never let you come within a mile of him! He looks at you like –”

“Like what?” Skrzetuski snapped, the cold memory of those fingers playing over his throat spurring him to anger. “It doesn’t matter, so what’s the use of going over it? I’ve gotten what I wanted in any case – a duel with Bohun – and that without any intervention from the false hetman. It’s over and done with.” He took a breath and tried to calm his pounding heart, frustrated by how easily Chmielnicki frightened him. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated.

Kisiel watched this outburst in silence. Then, “Alright,” he muttered. “I just wish I could’ve done something.”

Jan picked up his pen again and stared at the paper for a moment. _So do I._

 

It didn’t take long for Bohun and Skrzetuski to cross paths again. They brushed past each other in the courtyard the very next afternoon. Skrzetuski jerked away from the contact as if he’d been burnt. They whirled around towards each other and froze.

A crowd quickly formed around the two of them – one dark and brooding, richly clothed and jeweled with stolen finery – the other proud and alert, red cloak brushing the snowy ground, the very picture of a Wiśniowiecki soldier. Everyone muttered to themselves, clearly wondering what would come from that confrontation. The two remained silent for a long time, eyes locked. Bohun’s haggard, hungry stare met Jan’s proud, unrelenting defense.

Bohun was the first to look away, disguising Jan’s victory as a casual once-over. “And where do you think you’re going, ptashechka?”

The crowd’s murmuring grew louder.

Skrzetuski’s lip curled scornfully. “Looking for you, Cossack.” He tilted his head back and shifted his shoulders in an almost-shrug.

Bohun’s eyes flared with – anger? Interest? “Oh?”

“I want to make some things clear about the duel.”

“Don’t worry,” Bohun drawled. “I’ll tie one arm behind my back.”

Their audience snickered and Skrzetuski let them laugh. He almost smiled. “If you ever finish making excuses, maybe.”

“Don’t question my honor,” Bohun snarled.

“And you mine.”

“I could throw you in the dust. Right here, right now.”

Hands flew to the hilts of sabres and for a moment it seemed as if that might indeed come to pass. But Jan’s lips quirked into an all-out smile, a shadow of the infuriating, arrogant grin Bohun remembered from Rozłogi. It vanished as soon as it appeared. “Let’s talk about this in private.”

 

They wandered the outskirts of Perejasław, snow and frozen mud crunching on their boots, and finally paused near an overlook of snowy grassland. The rich colors of Bohun’s clothing – deep blues and dark red-purples – made him stand out against the drab countryside. Together with the jewels and feathers in his fur hat, he looked like a character from a fairytale – a hawk prince, maybe, or a falcon.

Jan reached immediately for the petty refuge he’d taken so often at Rozłogi whenever such thoughts made their appearance: _A good thing he killed that man in front of her: she can’t stand to look at him._ As if that was the reason he noticed. But even that pretense was useless now. What did it matter if Helena didn’t care for the handsome Cossack hero? Bohun himself had shown how little her preferences meant to him. Helena – God, Helena…

Could it be that she was so close, after all this time? In Kiev, just a few days’ ride away? He’d been numb with sorrow too long to hope. He glanced at Bohun again and noticed the Cossack was watching him in his turn. His eyes (Jan couldn’t determine if they were blue or green) stared out from under his dark brows with that same intense longing, almost hunger, and Skrzetuski suppressed a shudder. He must wear that expression all the time, he reassured himself, ill at ease. Tormented soul!

Jan was all too aware that this same young man, by turns reckless and melancholy, was the terror who’d burned Rozłogi to the ground. Who’d slaughtered the Kurcewiczowie one after another, who’d captured by force Helena, who he claimed to love. Skrzetuski wondered what a love like that was worth. The wind whipped at his cloak, cutting through the collar to where Chmielnicki’s fingers had rested, and he reached up instinctively to cover the spot with his hand. A rush of sudden grief overwhelmed him and it was all he could do not to stumble where he stood.

God, Helena…

He felt his shoulder brush against Bohun’s coat and straightened, trying desperately to reassemble that numb, stifled façade, when his wild eyes met Bohun’s.

“I could kill you right now, ptashka.”

Bohun’s words were barely louder than a whisper, but Skrzetuski heard them, clear as church bells in the pale air.

The threat didn’t matter. “You won’t.” _You can try._ “You love your Cossack honor too much.”

“Really?”

Jan was finished with this charade. “Tell me, do you really mean to wed her in Kiev? ‘A priest, and three hundred candles’?”

Bohun nodded before he caught himself and snarled, “What I mean to do with her is none of your business.”

“You haven’t touched her.”

“What do you take me for?”

Skrzetuski’s voice softened in relief. “That’s what Zagłoba told me. Of course,” he added, “he also told me he killed you.”

“Wołodyjowski wounded me,” Bohun bit out. “A scratch, nothing more.”

But Jan returned doggedly to the same topic. “Is the wedding what Helena wants?”

A struggle seemed to pass over Bohun’s dark features. Finally he spat, “And why should I tell you anything?”

Fresh relief and hope bloomed in Jan’s chest. He felt as if he could breathe freely for the first time in months. It wasn’t everything, it might not mean she still loved him, but oh, he’d been a fool to ever doubt her! He looked at Bohun, almost thankful, since he’d been the bearer of such news – and couldn’t help adding, “I’ll take that as a no.”

Bohun was working himself into a rage. “She doesn’t know it’s what she wants yet, Pole.” No derisive ‘little bird’ this time. Bohun’s voice was low and thick, shaking with fury.

Jan snorted. Anger leapt up inside him like a flame. After everything he’s done to her –! “Believe me, you don’t know anything about what she wants.”

He was keenly aware of everything around him, as if filled with the rush of the battlefield, already planning his first moves in case the ataman swung at him. _I hate you._ It hummed in his blood like a litany.

Bohun’s hand flew to his sabre. “I promised I’d throw your head at her feet!”

Skrzetuski spoke calmly, years of training keeping him in place, ready to attack at a moment’s notice. “You think that’ll make her love you?”

For a brief, frozen moment Bohun merely stared at him, eyes wild, shaking like a man possessed. Then, so quickly Jan barely saw it happen, he drew his sabre and attacked.

Skrzetuski’d been waiting for that, and his sabre was in his hand in an instant. He stepped back into a defensive crouch and parried the first blows easily. His boots crunched the thin layer of snow as he moved further back. Bohun fought like a whirlwind. What he lacked in technique he made up for with recklessness and pure fury. He rained blows on Jan with a vengeance and it was all Jan could do to continue blocking them, taking measured steps backward as Bohun advanced.

_He’ll tire himself out sometime. No one can keep up that kind of energy for long._

Bohun lunged forward again, slashing up, and Jan ducked, blocking it from the side. Sparks flew where the blades met. He took one more step back, footwork the product of years of training, and felt the heel of his boot meet the wooden wall of the barn.

_Shit._

And on his other side, the snowy hill, going down to the scrub of a dry riverbed.

He focused on avoiding Bohun’s blows, holding that scrap of ground until – there – Bohun faltered, just barely, keeping the blades crossed a moment too long without the force to keep them there, and Jan shoved him back and stepped forward, keeping Bohun engaged with deliberate slashes, intersecting from side to side, like it was a training exercise with Wołodyjowski and not a matter of life and death. Skrzetuski continued pressing forward, trying to get Bohun off the ridge onto the slope, where he’d have the upper hand. Bohun met him blow for blow.

Suddenly the Cossack’s demeanor changed. Bohun twisted the sabre in his hand and struck again, whirling and slashing, his grace almost beautiful. His technique was fascinating, Skrzetuski thought. It left him trying to anticipate his next move even before he blocked one blow. Similar, but different, from the swordsmen at Łubnie…

And with that, Jan was back on the offensive, meeting Bohun’s strikes with his own. He stepped forward again, using every trick he’d learned from Michał. _He’s good, but not as good as Wołodyjowski,_ he thought viciously.

Bohun’s eyes widened in surprise. They moved back along the ridge, Jan advancing, Bohun sidestepping his blows. The clash of steel echoed in the ravine below, dulled by the flurries of snow and the wind whipping at their heels. They were both flushed with the cold. As Bohun ducked a blow, and Skrzetuski advanced again, Jan’s sabre caught his fur hat and knocked it to the ground. Fresh snow powdered Bohun’s dark hair. Without meaning to, Skrzetuski grinned. Bohun gritted his teeth and attacked with renewed vigor.

Struggling to parry Bohun’s blows, Jan found himself retreating again, fighting to maintain that scrap of ground – to counterattack – to fall back again –

Bohun struck out at him, so fast he didn’t have the force to parry it to the side, and their blades crossed. Jan could see Bohun’s eyes through them, almost a perfect X. They remained locked there for some minutes, each straining one direction, scarcely able to breathe.

Bohun pushed the edge of his sabre closer with the harsh sound of steel scraping against steel.

Skrzetuski summoned the last of his strength and shoved, hard.

Bohun stumbled backwards down the hill. Skrzetuski took advantage of his momentary disarray to act fast. They barely exchanged a few more blows before the tip of Jan’s sword rested dangerously close to Bohun’s throat.

Gasping for air, Jan rocked back onto his heels, regaining his balance. Bohun glared up at him with those strikingly clear eyes, defeated but never cowed. Mud mixed with the snow in his hair.

For a second, they simply stared at each other, eyes locked.

He couldn’t kill him. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t.

Words weren’t necessary, Skrzetuski supposed. He lifted the blade almost immediately, then returned it to its sheath at his belt, and, after another hesitant moment _(He’d never have shaken hands with a non-noble a year ago; could remember even now ‘don’t you wear a sabre?’) (Blue or green? Blue or green blue or green blue or green)_ he offered Bohun a hand up.

Bohun didn’t take it. Like some wounded animal, he shifted painfully onto his side and pushed himself up by an arm. Once standing, he spat on the ground. It didn’t seem like words were necessary for him either.

Jan turned on his heel and walked away.

 

“I can’t decide if they love you or hate you,” Kisiel said.

Jan shrugged.

“Is it true you fought Bohun the other day?”

“Yes,” said Skrzetuski. His eyes, a dark amber color, fixed on the senator with quiet intensity. Oddly, he looked like he might smile. Kisiel reflected that this might be the most alive he’d seen the husaria captain in months. He couldn’t help but be grateful for that. Jan had seemed horrifyingly numb when they’d met at the inn, his usual shocking intensity turned inwards. The only glimpse of the depth of Skrzetuski’s grief had come when he was provoked to anger; for the rest of the time, the lieutenant acted like an automaton, twice as competent, loyal, and hardworking as any given man, but without a trace of any emotion whatsoever.

Twenty-two at the latest and determined to martyr himself at any cost. Kisiel had heard him mention death thirty times for ‘priesthood’.

A strange thing it was to be grateful to Skrzetuski’s mortal enemy. Yet Kisiel silently thanked Bohun for restoring Skrzetuski a shadow of his former passion.

“Well, don’t look so happy,” Kisiel grumbled, holding back his own smile. “I _am_ here for diplomatic reasons…”

“Helena is alive,” Skrzetuski said bluntly. “Alive and unharmed. She doesn’t want Bohun, and he means to wed her in fine fashion, do what he supposes is the right thing. I bested him yesterday and God willing, I’ll do it again.”

“…And?”

Jan’s lips quirked. “Senator, I’m trying very hard not to hope.”

 

“Where have you been? What did you do?” Everywhere Bohun went, it was the same. “I’d heard you were dead” and “Should’ve known!” He was embraced, clapped on the back, and toasted with glass after glass of gorzałka. As the night closed in, he even fumbled through a few songs on the lute, blinking several times to clear his vision, fingers flying over the strings faster than his thoughts… he woke with his head ringing and the same hollow ache in his chest as every morning before. Fresh red had seeped through to the bandages at his stomach.

Something Skrzetuski’d said still bothered him.

_Is the wedding what Helena wants?_

No. No – of course not, they both knew it. But Bohun perhaps believed Helena’s hatred of him (for that was what it was, wasn’t it?) to be more coincidence than fate. Not even the coincidence of his low birth and Skrzetuski’s high one; Bohun knew Helena well enough to say with confidence that neither could matter to her. No, it was the day that she’d witnessed him kill that had changed her opinion of him, made her aloof and afraid instead of welcoming. _Skrzetuski may call it something else_ , Bohun reflected bitterly, _but every day he spends in Jarema’s army is a day he kills. Don’t be naïve, I’ve seen them in action, and it can mean anything from Tatars to peasant children._

And there was a part of Bohun that still believed she would have loved him even now if that one day had never dawned – and still more that believed it was injustice, the injustice of chance, which had taken her love from him, just as injustice had stolen away their engagement. And since this was so clearly injustice, was he not entitled to take by force all that was his – all that should have been his?

_Is the wedding what Helena wants?_

Skrzetuski didn’t know she’d stabbed herself.

 

It was late. The hearthfires in the hall had died down to red coals, casting long shadows on the rough floorboards and the remains of the feast. Some mutters of conversation still persisted, clumps of people talking over their snoring comrades. The wild threats and insults Kisiel’s group had been greeted with initially had calmed somewhat since their arrival – Kisiel had wondered how much of that came from Skrzetuski’s return to life: disarming every threat with a challenging grin… The impending duel with Bohun, too, seemed entertainment, plain and simple. Odd that such things would actually help relations instead of hinder them.

Jan sat with his back against the wall and a pitcher of mead within arms’ reach – mostly untouched. Unwilling to go to sleep and unable to relax. He was still on edge.

Helena, alive and well – the emotion that thought caused was too great to handle. The idea that it all depended on him, that he had to duel Bohun the very next day and win to safeguard her, was so heavy he forgot to breathe with the weight of it.

And he knew he could never feel safe until things made sense again, until he saw Helena with his own eyes, until his duty was straightforward and Chmielnicki stopped watching him with a look so proprietary it made his skin crawl.

Skrzetuski exhaled, looking out across the sunset-colored room – slumped bodies, empty glasses, and the flicker of the fire. Chmielnicki had retired about an hour before, laughing and brooding by intervals, dangerous in his caprice. What did it matter that Skrzetuski wasn’t indebted to him anymore? He’d already shown Kisiel that no rules could touch him. _And what’s that to me?_ he’d said. Jan could imagine it all too easily. _I don’t owe you anything.  – What’s that to me?_

Skrzetuski’s nails dug into the flesh of his palm. He tried to focus on the present.

A few solitary notes plucked from a lute resounded through the near-silence. Bohun, alone at the end of the trestle table. The opposite end of the room.

“It will be always the same, while I draw my breath, from the hour of my birth to the day of my death…”

The Cossack colonel’s head was bowed, dark hair brushing dark eyelashes. The red light of the coals shone in his face and the silver embroidery of his clothes. Skrzetuski studied him for a minute and reached for the mead.

Almost unconsciously, he rose to his feet. They were practically alone now. Skrzetuski moved towards Bohun like a compass hand to north.

He stood across from him, leaning a little against the wall, and gulped down the rest of the mead. Bohun glanced up and then finished the phrase, not faltering in his playing or his voice. “Future days, if you wretched be, come short of the span allotted to me.” He cut off the sound of the lute abruptly. “What do you want?”

Unbidden, Skrzetuski’s lips quirked. “Do you spend all your time memorizing those?” He took a seat across from him.

Bohun rested the lute on the bench beside him. “Yes, naturally. When I’m not planning your death.”

“Naturally,” Skrzetuski echoed.

They were silent. Hardly a comfortable silence; something more unfamiliar, by turns intriguing and forbidding. They glanced at each other, but found it hard to meet the other’s gaze for more than a few moments. Both refused to lean closer. At last Jan shook his head and said, “That’ll be done by tomorrow.”

Bohun reached for the glass next to him. Was there already a slight slur to his words? “Giving up so easily?”

Skrzetuski snorted. “I’m talking about you.”

“Right,” Bohun said. His hand shook putting down the empty glass. It fell on its side and skittered across the table. “Fuck.”

Skrzetuski stopped it with a hand and set it upright. He watched Bohun carefully as he shifted closer, head tilted, and slid the glass back across the table towards him.

Bohun snagged it easily. His shoulders remained slumped inwards, head almost bowed. His eyes had been fixed listlessly on the tabletop, but as Jan casually slid the glass towards him, he gazed, intent, at Skrzetuski’s callused hands.

 

For a moment Bohun actually considered saying it.

It wasn’t that he felt _sympathetic_. Flashes of sympathy for Skrzetuski came and went as erratically as lightning strikes in a thunderstorm, preceded and followed by darkness.

It was that Helena’s hatred weighed on his heart like a millstone, and, no, he couldn’t say that, but didn’t Skrzetuski – the one she’d _chosen,_ he thought, bitter as poison – have a right to know what had transpired?

_Kurcewiczówna tried to kill herself._

The words were there: a thousand different ways of saying them. And he was perilously close to saying them, to taking that weight off his heart for just a few moments: and almost dizzy. He studied Skrzetuski’s hands where they rested across the tabletop, curling like fallen leaves: blunt knuckles, slim fingertips roughened by calluses, skin golden in the torchlight…

And then all of a sudden it hit him that if Skrzetuski knew, only one of two things would happen. He’d hate him all the more – he’d hate him _like Helena hated him_ –

Or the Pole would pity him, and goddammit, Bohun still had his pride.

He stood abruptly, breaking the circle connecting them, picked up the lute, and bid Skrzetuski get some rest if he expected to have any chance at all tomorrow.

Skrzetuski leaned back, surprised but still lethargic, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Same to you.”

 

In the two hours before darkness the next evening, Polish lieutenant Jan Skrzetuski and Cossack ataman Jur Bohun met for what was meant to be the last time. The winter sun had practically vanished into the white sky above, and the only hint of nightfall was the blurry darkness of the horizon that stretched in a neat disk around them. A breeze had picked up from the north, and barely any snow lay on the frozen ground. The wooden walls of the town buildings offered some protection from the elements, as did the crowd gathered inside them: an untamable mass, hostile both in their enmity and their expectations. Chmielnicki sat above them with the envoys and the Brotherhood, looking by turns amused and contemptuous. His laughter joined with the din of the crowd, forming a rumble like an earthquake. Studying the horizon where it disappeared behind the houses and the domes of the church, Skrzetuski almost expected the ground to crack open.

He’d gotten ready for this an hour or so earlier: fastening his belt closely; checking that his sabre slid easily from its scabbard. Pacing up and down the floorboards until his boots felt natural on the soles of his feet. Trying to calm his breathing –in, out… trying to ignore the unease in his stomach. He thought of Bohun, stained red by the firelight, breathing his soul out in his words, such impossible sorrow conveyed in his features that the old ache in Jan’s chest had flared up again, poisoning him with an echo of its coldness – understanding too much and yet not at all. He thought of Helena, dark eyes alight with fresh joy, cheeks flushed by his own words, who had flinched away from her aunt and then stood tall and proud before him as he kissed her mouth. _Helena_ , and every day he’d spent without her he’d been so dizzy he could barely walk straight. Helena, and every day he’d thought her dead had felt like not breathing.

_Don’t think about Bohun. Helena depends on this, and she’s better than either of us._

It was true. Standing now in front of the ataman, Jan exhaled steadily and braced himself.

Bohun looked almost tired. His clear eyes had gone dim, but the corners of his mouth curved up when he saw Skrzetuski, sharp and almost confidential.

“Well,” said Bohun, with a touch of irony, “to one death, to another life.”

They stripped off their coats. The December chill rushed through the thin fabric remaining, cutting into Skrzetuski’s skin. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing his wrists to the cold, and looked back at Bohun.

Bohun watched him in return. Something odd and unsure flickered in his eyes; he blinked, reassumed that predatory smile, and muttered:

“This blood,” – and he gestured down at the bandages which even now showed the dull red of a dried wound through the thin whiteness of his shirt – “was given me by a noble very similar to you, ptashechka, a better man than you. No, I’m not ashamed of it. Do you know what they told me, when they stopped me on my way to Warszawa as an envoy?”

The crowd around him quieted.

“If you’re _noble,_ ” Bohun spat out the word, “and have _any sense of brotherhood_ , you know that wrong done to one is done to the whole order.” He turned, declaiming to the crowd of Cossacks and peasants. “This man took my fiancée, the girl who had been promised to me, and her family allowed him to – why? Because he’s szlachta.” Bohun spat on the ground. “I tell you: if that’s so, then let it be the same for us. Wrong done one is wrong done all.”

The crowd roared. Jan restrained his rage, focused it on the steel in his hand and on Bohun’s eyes not-looking at him.

Until –

“ _‘Your girl’_ loves me,” Skrzetuski said. The words came out louder than he’d intended, low with fury. “Do you think it’s right that she should have been promised to you without her agreement? Do you think it’s right that even now you should _wed her_ without her agreement?”

“Love doesn’t matter!” Bohun stepped closer. “It was a promise. A contract. They went back on it and I paid them as they deserved.”

Skrzetuski remembered the cruel, unforgiving face of Helena’s aunt, the affable simplicity of her five sons. _More blood on my hands._

“Honor is all there is in that: there’s no place there for love.”

 _As if you believed that_. Jan snorted. His words were soaked in contempt, his heart already hardened to his task. “I won’t regret your death.”

Bohun hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. “Nor I yours.”

“Places,” warned Chmielnicki.

Kisiel, standing with the envoys’ group, looked over to Skrzetuski. The lieutenant nodded once, briefly.

“Then, in the name of God, begin!”

 

Jan did not hesitate.

He pressed forward immediately, sabre slicing clean arcs through the cold air. Footwork immaculate as he gained more and more ground, forcing Bohun to step further and further back across the square.  Efficient, precise, and forceful: technique designed to end this as quickly as possible.

 

(At the last second, Bohun had faltered.

 _Why?_ Skrzetuski didn’t have the time to consider it.)

 

They progressed across the square, the crowd keeping a rough circle around them. Skrzetuski kept up a ruthless offense. He was all too aware of the mob around him – all too aware of Chmielnicki’s presence on the sidelines. The tendons in his wrist strained as he adjusted his grip on the sabre’s hilt to get a better angle, cutting upwards instead of from side to side, and Bohun sprang backwards, hissing in frustration. The Cossack’s defense was ragged, technique erratic – still recovering from being taken off guard.

Just a few more moments, Jan thought. Here – then up – and it’ll be over. _Don’t think, don’t think, just do it._

Bohun blocked his last blow with a twist of his blade and, skidding, regained his position. He managed to halt his retreat, neatly evading the cuts of Skrzetuski’s sabre. Alert now, he fought back with masterful grace – and no great force. A whirlwind, enough to keep Jan distracted and engaged, keeping him too occupied to push back: not enough to end the fight once and for all.

Hardly what Jan wanted.

Bohun flashed Skrzetuski a grin – white teeth bared – as he slashed upwards again, towards the flesh of Skrzetuski’s ribs. Frustrated, Jan undercut the blow with one of his own, and Bohun’s mood changed. He knocked Skrzetuski’s parry aside with a blow so forceful Jan’s bones shook, heart startled into pumping faster. With the same force, he compelled Skrzetuski to withdraw, to give up one foot of ground after another. The crowd parted behind him.

Skrzetuski fought back, dodging and slashing, his ragged breathing contrasting with Wiśniowiecki’s cool military discipline. He slowed the retreat until they were almost equally matched again. Disoriented, he barely noticed that they’d moved so far from the center that the crowd of people clustered around them now formed a rough semicircle against the far side of the square.

Jan surged forward again, sparks flying where the blades clashed, and startled Bohun into nearly falling. And it was as Bohun fell – into a lithe crouch – that he switched the hilt of his sabre from one hand to the other.

Skrzetuski had barely a second to adjust. Bohun attacked with all his force, moving forward relentlessly. He knocked the blade from Skrzetuski’s fingers, twisting it free of his grasp, gripped Jan’s shoulder with his right hand, and slammed Skrzetuski into the wall.

Jan slumped forward almost automatically, gasping for air. The curved blade of Bohun’s sabre rested at his throat.

 

Bohun’s heart pounded in his ears, frozen. He could feel Skrzetuski’s breathing  –his chest moving where it was almost-pressed against his own. Skrzetuski’s pulse sped up: Bohun’s own heartbeat sounded loud as a drum. The thought of killing him barely even crossed his mind.

Almost as if he were someone else, removed from the scene, Bohun studied the pale skin of Skrzetuski’s neck, the jutting bones above his chest, the golden color of his shoulders under the thin sleeves, as if he would drink the sight in like a cup of fine wine. His eyes flicked back to Skrzetuski’s face. The blade of the sabre had pressed a thin red line into his throat.

Jan met Bohun’s eyes – scared, daring, secure. Then, deliberately, he looked at Bohun’s lips.

The sound of galloping hooves on the cobblestones startled them both.

“News from Kiev for the hetman,” someone was shouting in Ruthenian. The murmuring of the crowd, long since gone quiet, got louder and louder, drowning out Chmielnicki’s response. “Yes, yes,” the rider explained, “that’s why it’s so important –”

Bohun broke away from Skrzetuski in the chaos, relieved yet unsatisfied at the same time. He felt dazed, dizzy; his pulse still raced, erratic, as he tried to control his ragged breathing. Behind him, Skrzetuski slumped back against the wall.

Then a cold sweat broke over him. _Kiev._

“What happened?” Bohun said roughly. Feeling sick, he repeated it, louder: “What happened?” Skrzetuski stepped up next to him until they stood shoulder to shoulder, like the front line of a battlefield.

The rider pushed through the crowd towards them. “Chmiel sent me to bring her, bat’ku. The girl – Helena Kurcewiczówna is dead.”

Skrzetuski stumbled as if dealt a physical blow. He steadied himself with a hand on Bohun’s shoulder, turning towards him for a moment, eyes wild, before staring at the ground. His frame went rigid, reverberating like a glass bell.

Bohun was too stunned to react.

_What have I done to you, that you follow me like misfortune?_

He remembered her question and how he’d answered it, there in the Waładynka. _What have you done to me? I know not; but this I do know, that if I am misfortune to you, you too are misfortune to me._

His horror must have shown on his face. The messenger continued, uncertainly: “She was in sanctuary; the mob stormed the convent.” _Our people_. “Overrun. None of the girls are alive today. Many were killed by the sword, after –” He looked at Bohun and Skrzetuski and began again. “They suffocated the others with smoke. In the nuns’ cells. Your girl Kurcewiczówna was among them.”

“I would have given you my blood,” Bohun murmured, retracing the syllables. The quiet words were snatched and swept away by the wind. “My soul.”

“It was the convent of Nikolai the Good, in Kiev,” the rider said gruffly, mistaking Bohun’s reaction for disbelief. “Go there yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Bohun merely shook his head, uncomprehending. At his side, Skrzetuski raked a hand through his hair, obscuring his face. All but collapsing.

Skrzetuski returned his hands to his sides. He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up to meet Kisiel’s eyes. A moment before he left the scene, he glanced at Bohun – searching for a sign, but of what? Recognition? Grief? Understanding?

The red glow of sunset rose on the horizon, lighting the domes of the Perejasław church. The crowd dispersed dissatisfied, dark shadows cast on the frozen ground.

_The convent of Nikolai the Good, he said. Not the Holy Virgin._

Bohun’s heart began to beat again. Once, twice.

 

Skrzetuski left for Zbaraż before the sun dawned blue next morning. Bohun would not meet him again until the war had ended.


End file.
